Crusaders and Cough Syrup
by anvreder
Summary: Two sick Winchesters and a bedtime story. MiniWinchester fluff.


**Crusaders and Cough Syrup**

_Fluff. Pure, syrupy, coma inducing fluff. Hehe.

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_

"Cough on me again, kiddo, and I'm hanging you out the window by your ears." It's the fifth time Caleb's made that threat, and Dean sort of hopes Sam will, just so he can see his dad's reaction. The older hunter, with his leg in plaster from ankle to knee, has drawn the proverbial short straw when it came to the babysitting gig. _What, you gonna beat the spook to death with your cast? _Caleb had muttered something about beating _John _to death with it, and the two Winchester boys had found him pouting in the den.

"You're on Sammy duty." Dean informs him. Because Dean is eight, and old enough to take care of himself. Besides, they are both sick- _Just a cold, John, relax-_ and even Dean could run out of ways to keep a crabby four-year-old in line.

Sam has a handful of red blanket, and his pyjamas are Dean's; rolled up at the ankles and covered in blue and green stripes. Dean hadn't changed from his track pants. They are warm, comfortable, and he's stolen a pair of John's thousand mile socks that threaten to trip him down the stairs.

Whatever Caleb had been watching on the TV flickers off screen with the opening of the den door. Dean rolls his eyes, knowing that if it doesn't have any exploding cars, _he_ won't enjoy it. The television doesn't get turned on again. Caleb knows better. John would kill him. Caleb, Dean, and the idiot box aren't allowed in the same sentence. Not after the hunter had treated the kid to a Romero zombie-fest, and Dean had refused to sleep until he had spoken to John. At four in the morning. During a hunt. Not the babysitter's finest hour.

Caleb grunts as Sam crawls into his lap and arranges his blanket carefully over the damaged limb. Dean thinks he is too old for all that touchy feely crap, until Sam looks at him, then he is squished on Caleb's other side, trying not to fall off the couch.

The hunter makes a show of stretching his arms, and it's a move Dean has seen guys pull on girls, but it saves him the embarrassment, and Caleb's arm keeps him planted firmly on the furniture. "Your dad get off alright?"

Dean knows that Caleb watched the other hunters leave from the window, even though Joshua threatened to duct tap him to a chair if he put any weight on his leg. Dean isn't going to tell. Caleb is cool, and he doesn't believe in bedtimes. He nods, and Sammy drags the blanket over him, as well.

"Story." The little boy yawns. Dean and Caleb share a look, knowing that five minutes of Caleb's lilting tales would have the toddler out like a light. Caleb shifts to get comfortable. Both boys won't be going anywhere tonight, he's in it for the long haul.

"I was telling you about Richard the Lionheart, right?" Caleb tries to keep track of which story he told when. There is a constant demand for them.

Dean nods a little, yawns, and snuggles closer until Sammy's chubby fingers coil around his sleeve. Caleb is hemmed in on all sides by sleepy, snuffling Winchesters, and he realises he would much rather be here, than stuck in a car with John and Jefferson butting heads like stags in mating season.

"Core de lion." Dean remembers the French word, and knows Caleb likes to hear his native tongue.

"Cœur de Lion." Caleb corrects gently, and Dean nods again.

"Did he really have a pet lion?" Sammy asks around a yawn and a cough. Dean rolls his eyes and thinks _babies_, and Caleb laughs, knowing that Sam is going to want a lion, and how the hell will John fit one in the back of the Impala?

"No, kiddo. People call him _Lionheart _because he always showed courage no matter what trials he faced. Even when held captive by his enemies for two years, nothing could break his spirit." Of course, Caleb remembers a different story, one decidedly bloodier, but the boys are still young, and Caleb won't be responsible for any more burst bubbles.

A sudden shift on Caleb's lap almost sends Dean sprawling, but the hunter's grip is true, and he hold's both boys tight until Sammy stops wriggling. Big, innocent eyes peer through tangled hair _John, grow some balls and give the kid a haircut._ "Did they hurt the king?" Sammy asks quietly, because Sammy still believes in the goodness of people, and can't bear to see anyone hurt.

"He was well treated." Caleb was quick to reassure the child, not liking the look of disbelief marring Dean's small face. "But captivity is captivity, not matter the conditions. Richard's own brother sent word to his captors, offering money to keep the king prisoner for longer."

Sam, with a code of morals far more ironclad than most adults, thinks that betrayal is worse than anything else. His young mind clouds with sickness and makes him wonder if he could ever hate Dean that much. Of course he couldn't, and Caleb has to grab them both again whilst Sam crawls over him to get to Dean.

Eight-year-old Dean always gets sicker than Sammy, though he never likes to admit it, and he is half asleep already, warm and full of cherry flavoured cough medicine. Sam burrows under his arm, and Dean opens one bleary green eye.

"I'd never lock you up." He says seriously. Dean smiles half a smile and regains his big brother cool.

"As if you could, squirt."

"I'll never hate you, either."

Caleb snorts. "Remember that when you hit puberty." But neither boy gets the joke, so Caleb doesn't try to explain it.

"Hey Caleb," Dean yawns, and needs the hunter to provide him with enough cover to fall asleep. His eyes just won't stay open. "Does the king ever get back to England?"

"Corse he did." Caleb won't tell them that he was dead five years later, at the grand old age of forty-two. Arrow. He wouldn't tell them that until John is forty-three. Or maybe until Sam is forty-three.

"Hey Dean?"

"Hmm?"

Sammy leans forwards to whisper in his brother's ear, but Caleb hears him just the same. "I think you'd make a good Lionheart. You're never afraid."

Dean doesn't answer, but he smiles in his sleep.

* * *

_Ok. I needed a fix of happy stuff. DBD is great fun to write, but kinda short on the cute right now, and nobody does cute like a miniWinchester. It is silly, and pointless, and who really gives a damn! Not me. And now I really should stumble my way to bed. Nighty night, all!_


End file.
